Gossip Girl 1. Serena

Fucking Serena van der Woodsen is like fucking a dream.

As soon as he writes the words down, he feels a stab of uncomfortable guilt, but he needs to get this down on paper. It had been two weeks since Daniel Humphrey had lost his virginity to Serena, It-Girl Extraordinaire, Park Avenue Blonde Princess, his _girlfriend_, and he hadn't written a word since he'd – well, entered virgin territory. Except, okay, Serena was so not a virgin. And the word territory makes him supremely uncomfortable as a guy who advocates for equal rights, you know. Since he'd…well, done the deed, lost his v-card, become a man. Wow, euphemisms for this are hilarious and embarrassing. Whatever. The wording here wasn't important.

It had been Christmas, and her gold-streaked hair was like the shining star atop the bejeweled tree. Fake snowflakes swirled down towards them, pressing soft butterfly kisses on their winter-hardened skin. She pulled him down towards her and he knew – this is the moment, oh – and he silently thanks his good sense/patheticness for practicing how to put a condom on, because he does it deftly and she looks mildly impressed. Virginal and shaking, Dan sidles close to her, trying to lose himself in their kiss, and he deepens it and swirls his tongue slowly because this, he knows how to do, and he does it well. He'd wanted this forever, and the way they're doing it is entirely and impossibly perfect, but somehow the prospect of having sex with Serena is…intimidating. He feels insecure and overpowered, but Serena just giggles gently and guides him inside her and then, all logical thought is out the window.

Or so it should have been.

He feels himself slide into her, and his breath hitches, and she lets out a breathy moan – all of Serena's sounds are high-pitched and breathy, she never quite moans. It feels unbelievably good, better than he'd thought it would be; his dick is tingling and she is warm and it feels like getting a blowjob from an angel, or something equally ridiculous. But he finds that his brain is still very fully with him – he is Dan Humphrey after all, and honestly, his mind is racing a mile a minute. He thinks of e. e. cummings and how he might write about sex, and then he thinks about the potential of bawdy sex jokes in the poet's name, he thinks about rain and the sound it makes and then of his English homework, he thinks about God briefly and scolds himself for being weirdly blasphemous and it's like he can't quite concentrate on the writhing girl beneath him. Which is so weird! She is magnetically beautiful, an absolute vision, her eyes gleaming and her teeth shining and he recalls Tolkien's famous "all that is gold does not glitter," and he wants to say, wrong, hobbit-man, Serena is the most golden person he's ever met and she fucking glows. But somehow, as wonderful as everything is, Dan is focused on words, words, words – he thinks of how he would later describe his feelings during sex and how he would write them down and he comes up empty so he just keeps racking his brain and Serena looks confused and it would be really strange if he just started uttering what was going through his mind (my dad, Brooklyn, the sun, French cinema), so he repeats, like a sacred mantra, _Serena, Serena, Serena_, and she smiles lovingly up at him.

He came a little bit too quickly but she seemed satisfied, thank god, and later they cuddle and he relishes in the fact that kissing is still familiar and amazing and he's able to lose himself in it a little bit more.

It's been two weeks since then and well, they've been fucking a lot. They have to sneak around but fortunately neither of them are very loud so they can just kind of do it even if parents are around. It's exceptional. Dan decides very seriously that he loves sex, and almost writes it down in his diary, but that feels too silly. It's great, and he feels closer to Serena, and he's been lasting longer and she's pleased with him and they're getting along so well and he could never have imagined in a million years that he would deserve such happiness.

The only problem is – well, his brain. It's like it has diarrhea, or something. It's constantly in overload while they're having sex and he's never able to just enjoy the physicality. He'd thought that, after a while, instinct or animal lust or hormones or whatever would kick in, and he'd be able to inhabit a different space, a lust-clouded haze of dreamy sex, but it doesn't really. He thinks over and over in his head, I am making love to this girl, because he wants to be. I love her, he thinks, and he thinks it ardently, but it feels strangely off.

Making love to Serena is – wow, this sounds so harsh, and it's not even true, damnit, Dan is just doing what he always does, overthinking it, but…it's weirdly empty. She is so breathy and light and she feels like she is going to just float away, like a brightly colored balloon, spiraling upwards. Perhaps it's because he's imagined it for so long. It must be. He's put her on a pedestal and that's what's causing him to doubt her, because nobody can live up to that kind of expectation. But she's like a spark of light, effervescent and luminous, but absolutely temporary, a flashing Christmas tree that is almost ready to get dismantled and put back in the basement. Even when her hips are bucking towards him and she's grabbing at his penis and he holds her down and kisses her hard and fucks her, pumping in and out of her center, both of them saying each other's names, it feels…unreal. A dream. Distinctly not corporal, not of the body, not lasting. When he holds her it feels like she's going to flit away into thin air and it takes shoving his tongue down her throat to break through the unsavory feeling.

The words are spilling over now, his writer's block broken down like a house of cheap cards. Perhaps what had been obstructing him all this time was simple honesty, but he doesn't like this new direction he's headed. Dan wonders aloud what to do and settles on a solution quickly – aha! All he has to do is take a leaf out of Petrarch's notebook, and write a blazon for Serena. He will chart all of her features meticulously and the list will transpire only feelings of love and comfort. He starts with her hair, most obviously. Honestly, he doesn't think he can do it justice.

It's always perfect, is the thing. Even when it's not. Serena often rolls out of bed and puts on the most ostentatious and expensive outfit she can possibly bear, but sometimes she doesn't even comb her hair. And it looks amazing. Messy chic. Golden and eternal, flowing effortlessly around her in waves, a cascade of shimmer and glamour. He loves touching it, running his fingers through its infinity. It does an immaculate job of highlighting all of her features, on top of everything else. Her face…it's funny, Serena's face isn't perfect. It's not what you would really call classically beautiful, and he hadn't recognized that until he was up close and personal. Her outfits and hair and skin and legs are enough to leave you just kind of thunderstruck, so nobody actually pays attention to her countenance long enough to study it. But her eyes, although brilliantly blue, are quite small, not very expressive, and too close together. They're certainly not the doe-like full-lashed eyes that are accepted as classically pretty. Her nose lacks the necessary elegant curvature, instead it's actually a bit bulky for her face. Her lips much too thin, lacking a full pout. Her cheekbones do not stick out, her face is a bit squarish, and her jawline is strong, almost masculine.

He decides he likes – no, loves, these things about her. They make Serena human. Somehow he feels closer to her since charting her imperfections, like maybe she isn't going to flutter away on some lazy afternoon, like a breath released. And for fuck's sake, who has a perfect face anyway?

An image pops forcefully into his mind before he can truncate it. Oh god. Blair Waldorf.

He tries to impede the conclusion already halfway formed, inhibit its progress somehow, but it's already gliding through the wrinkles of his brain. He convinces himself that it's only because he's a writer, a strict and candid observer of human life, that he lets the thought slip out.

Blair Waldorf's face is perfect. This is an undeniable fact.

Her eyebrows, obviously professionally trimmed, are inevitably flawless and quirk upwards at the ends. They make her face doubly expressive, her insults more barbed, her sad expressions more heartbreaking. He's only seen it once, really, but – oh, she was stunning, donning a green dress like a beacon of pained jealousy, hair deep and brown and curly and sweet, lips pouting deliciously, eyes shining in anger. He'd thought fleetingly that if he saw her cry he might break. And forgive her. For everything.

Her eyes are warm and brown – dark mostly but with flecks of honeyed lightness, a delicate fan of eyelashes naturally curved upwards. When they widen in delight they are like pools of chocolate, and when they narrow in pain, a crème brulee with a cracked surface.

Her nose is feminine and aristocratic. Impeccably proportioned. Like a miniature ski slope ending in a tender point. He could just slide right off of it.

Her cheekbones are literally exquisite – they must have been carved, he muses, she rivals a goddess with their slender arch, and when she smiles, they pop out like columns of joy.

Her lips – fuck, her lips. They're so pink and full, her bottom one bowing out slightly more, and there's this subtle ridge in the exact middle of her bottom lip, a crease, a curl, like two hands come together in a clasp, he can't explain it, they're just…

His mind wanders and before he knows it, he's thinking about her body, her creamy, lovely skin, it must be so warm, and her pert breasts, and the shape of her ass, and good lord, her ass is perfect –

Dan shoots up out of his chair, shocked. His dick is stiffening quickly in his pants and he's just written an entire blazon about his girlfriend's best friend. The one who _loathes_ him. He looks down in mortification, both at what he's done and what his writing has devolved into – he's actually written down on his laptop, as if part of a justifiable writing exercise, "good lord, her ass is perfect." He wants to slap himself and he desperately needs a cold shower so he thinks hard about Blair and how completely horrible she is. How she calls him a charity case and smells "pork and cheese" on his breath and how she insults his shoes and the way she turns her nose up at him – yelping, Dan realizes that this train of thought isn't helping with his boner. What the fuck? Is he turned on by Blair degrading him? The idea is atrocious. What is happening to him? Derail this train of thought! He screams at himself, and finally, he thinks about Jenny, oh, poor Jenny, what Blair did to Jenny, and the simple thought of his sister causes him to deflate, both mentally and physically.

Dan breathes deeply in recovery. This whole afternoon has been a waste, he decides vehemently. The thoughts he just had must have been part of some wild and crazy fluke, some weird adolescent tomfoolery. He deletes the entire document – the parts about Serena and _of course_ the parts about Blair, and takes out his phone to text his girlfriend.

"I miss you." He writes, deciding to keep it simple and sweet. He knows she'll appreciate it and he feels cheerier already, imagining the small grin on her face.

As if willing the clutter in his mind away, he concentrates on one word and one word only. He says it like a sacred mantra_, Serena, Serena, Serena_.


	2. Rachel, Part One

Author's Note: Sorry about the very long pause in between chapters! I have to admit I was feeling a bit uninspired after that finale – it was a rather painful one for Dair fans.

This installment is a little bit AU just because I didn't watch the first couple seasons that closely (I really got hooked around Season 4 with the Dan/Blair storyline) so I don't think the events/timeline match up exactly with how they happened.

This is part 1 of Dan and Rachel.

* * *

The short stories Daniel Humphrey writes the summer after he breaks up with Serena van der Woodsen are all biting, snarky, bitter. They are slightly tongue-in-cheek, self-aware of their own pathetic nature, but entirely devoted to the subject of his breakup. If he picked up a guitar and turned them into songs, he would most likely become the male Taylor Swift. Still, he thinks of them fondly, believes them to be more complex than the lust-filled, cloudy, clearly teenaged prose of notebooks past. He titles them things like Blondes Have More Fun(ds) and Ex-Girlfriends and Ohs, finding solace in little puns. He writes them first on a laptop, makes a sweeping round of final edits, and types them all out on a typewriter he'd gotten from Serena, an unusually thoughtful gift for her. She usually liked to give him glamorous things he'd never use – watches and jewelry that were always more Archibald than Humphrey. But he'd smile and accept them gratefully, only to incorporate them into his sardonic stories later, listing all the ways in which Serena, flawless as she was thought to be by her adoring public, was generally insensitive. Callous. Fake. Shallow. Just - too fucking blonde. He wrote up a tedious laundry list of negative qualities in the It Girl but he missed her, goddamnit, he missed her. He felt the emotion deeply. He filled himself with it, he tasted it, he swirled it around in his insides and made sure it permeated his core, filled him to the very brim so that he could know it completely. It was an indulgent exercise in self-pity that Dan excused for his writing. It's okay to drown in your emotions if you have to express them and put them on paper, Dan thought, waving away his own misgivings.

The typewriter was one of Serena's only personalized gifts for Dan, something that blue-blooded Nate or Chuck would never appreciate. He looks at it every morning in defiance, thinking, _at least you won't betray me_. He names it Goldie Locks. It was all very stupid and clichéd, like a first break-up should be. In five years he would laugh at his astounding immaturity. But during slow, tender moments in the city, where time waded by like a painful, luxurious wave, these thoughts kept him sane.

Sometime during the summer, Dan makes the transition from blondes to brunettes. And he likes it.

At first it was just an exercise in getting over Serena van der Woodsen. He'd been enchanted for so long by this sunny, golden, carefree goddess - it was time he turned his attention to other types of beautiful women. And besides, blonde girls only reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. He stops watching old films starring Marilyn Monroe and creates a long Netflix queue of dark-haired beauties: the smouldering Vivien Leigh, the mysterious Ava Gardner, the slightly dangerous, ever so sexy Elizabeth Taylor. When he settles down to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's one night, he feels a strange pull at his chest. Of course, he identifies with Paul: his kind nature, his writing, his poverty. But it's something about Holly Golightly – her flawless smile and her big, sad eyes – he feels like he's seen it before. But Holly is nothing like Serena or Vanessa or Jenny or any of the other women in his life. He chalks it up to a strange case of déjà vu and falls asleep a little bit restless that night.

When he tries to force Old School Movie Night with Nate Archibald, he is met with nothing but wide-eyed skepticism.

"Dude…" Nate says slowly when Dan tries to convince him to watch some Tati or Bergman. "Um, why don't we watch something more, um … recent? I've been dying to watch Kill Bill, it's even got some good reviews, yeah? And hot chicks fighting. You down?"

Dan concedes and is pleased to find that Quentin Tarantino is definitely an entertaining director. He takes note of the familiar leggy, blonde protagonist but is more interested in Lucy Liu and Vivica A. Fox, entranced by their fiery personas. He dates a string of brunettes that summer. He twirls his fingers in their chocolate brown hair lazily; he takes them to charming bistros and buys them coffee and listens politely to accounts of their life. He enjoys kissing them. He finds them to be attractive. And yet. He tries to care. The feeling does not come.

* * *

_Claire's eyes speak volumes, intimate and comfortable, yet inexplicably discordant with her tone: stridulous, clanging, and unabashedly bitchy. "Get out of my way, Lonely Boy," echoes in my ears but the words are transient, flushed out by the image coagulating, thick, like liquid resolve, in my brain. Dark, laughing, poisonously lovely eyes. The shiver crawling up my spine has decidedly nothing to do with the crispness of fall, and everything to do with the girl I detest. Abhor. Can't fucking stand. Right?_

"Oh my god, Dan, what are you writing?"

"Jenny – no, come on, this is private – " Dan splutters indignantly, closing his laptop with a defiant snap.

"You are literally so pretentious," she laughs, flipping her short blonde hair. "Your writing is like an SAT dictionary."

Dan raises an eyebrow at his little sister. "Which – you should be studying for, Jen," he says, scolding, but Little J doesn't take the bait.

"Stop changing the subject, _Lonely Boy_," she says derisively. "So you're calling Serena _Claire_? That doesn't really fit her. You should go for something more dramatic. Maybe like…Ophelia."

"I'm not naming my girlfriend after the suicidal counterpart to Hamlet, Jenny. And it's not about Serena, for the last time, I write fiction." Dan counters, shaking his head.

Jenny looks confused for a second and then relents. "Whatever, Dan, go talk to some books or something. Anyway, I thought everything you wrote was about Serena," she throws over her shoulder as she runs out the door in her precariously high heels, looking more like a runway model than a teenager headed to school.

Dan follows begrudgingly, trying not to let her words affect him.

_I thought everything you wrote was about Serena. _

He hasn't written a single word about her in weeks. They're back together now, after a tumultuous, yet strangely boring cycle of getting back together, splitting up, only to end up dating again. Chocolate-covered strawberries, a seductive gaze, voyeurism in a moving bathroom. Dan had written extensively on the metaphor of how they had both buried their feelings, trying desperately to make it work, only to have every contained emotion spill out, bubbling and sad, while trapped in the vessel of an elevator. How funny and logical it all was, wrapped in a shiny layer of irony.

Although Dan had missed her, really missed her, and been virulently jealous of Aaron Rose and the stupid, sleazy way he'd smile at Serena, now that he had her back – it was … well, okay, weird. Kind of stagnant, as if he were standing uncomfortably in an elevator, stuck between floors. Seeing Lily and Rufus together was like seeing his future spelled out for him, and that was phenomenally uncomfortable for a teenager, waiting on the cusp of change. Lily with her cold, Upper East Side ways, and his father, his dearest father who made a good, honest living and the best fucking waffles in all of New York, trying so hard to fit in. Was that how he would end up with Serena, twenty years from now, gritting his teeth through insipid conversation and superficial parties? He felt perfectly comfortable as Nick Carraway, writing his way through the champagne-drenched silliness and winking, ostentatious lights, but he would never be a Gatsby or a Buchanan; of that he was quite certain.

Claire: now she was a new character that he had been experimenting with for some time now. She had absolutely nothing – NOTHING – to do with any of the women he knew in real life. She was influenced exclusively by his ample knowledge of literature and film, of his Netflix queue of memorable brunettes, armed with Audrey's arresting eyes and Vivian's scintillating spark. She lived solely in his head. At first Dan had been suspicious of his mental state when a tiny, pixie-like seductress started appearing and sometimes even _talking to him_, but he'd dismissed it as normal – for a writer. Hemingway was an insane drunk and he still managed to write luminous prose. If he was going to be a real writer, with fleshed-out, three-dimensional characters, well, it would probably help to start having imaginary conversations with them in his head … and … seeing them around everywhere, smirking and flirting with him secretly.

"Humphrey, it's time you check yourself into the Ostroff. Who are you, Sylvia Plath? You made me up inside your head. You certainly should avoid ovens at all costs," Little Claire sat in his pocket on his way to class and laughed airily at him, sticking out her tongue playfully.

_Shut up, Claire_, he hissed at her in annoyance. _Plath was deeply depressed because of the state of womanhood in 1950's America. I am nowhere near oppressed or repressed. Haven't you ever heard of white male privilege?_

"Privilege!" Claire shouts out, amused. "I dunno, Hump, you are from Brooklyn, isn't that like being homeless anyway," Claire teased. "I hear you guys are all distantly related to the mole people. That is some fucked up genetic oppression."

He looks at little Claire – dressed today in a schoolgirl outfit with just a bit of her garter peeking out, and he's turned on, and he wants to kiss her, good God, what in the hell is wrong with him, she is an eight-inch fragment of his imagination whereas Serena van der Woodsen stands tall and proud like some sort of amazon queen, blonde hair blowing in the autumn wind.

His girlfriend comes up to him, all five feet and glorious nine inches of her, her school tie silver today to match her glittery eyeshadow. "Morning," she says and gives him a quick peck happily. He smiles, taking her in, and replies, "Good morning, beautiful." He means it, one hundred percent, and looks little Claire square in the eyes as he says so. She frowns, glaring at him a bit, and disappears into thin air - poof! _Thank god_, Dan thinks, not missing her. At all.

Trying to distract himself from the seemingly unstable state of his sanity, Dan points ahead to the very petite girl struggling in high heels ahead of them, very unlike his little Claire, who could walk more gracefully than a stripper in her platform shoes. "Who's the new kid?" He asks Serena, to which he is answered with a giggle. "She's my new Shakespeare teacher, Miss Carr!"

* * *

A/N again: Okay, so I hope it's obvious that little Claire is based off of Blair. However, this lends some weight to Serena's theory that Dan was only ever in love with the fictional Claire Carlisle, not Blair Waldorf, as she said in the finale. I just want to clarify that I absolutely do NOT agree with Serena; I believe that Dan has always had a thing for Blair and is simply in denial in this chapter.


	3. Rachel, Part Two

A/N: The Rachel/Dan sex scene is in the next chapter! This chapter finally features a bit of buildup between Dan and Blair. Definite slight AU. All encounters are basically what happened in the show but I fiddled with the scenes a little bit.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!

* * *

"Come on, let's go help her," Serena exclaims with zest, and leads Dan over to the tiny new teacher. Without thinking, Dan reaches out to help carry her files – one, two, chivalry ain't dead, it's been passed down from Humphrey to Humphrey as long as Brooklyn has existed – and he is met by a warm, sincere smile.

"Thank you," she says, lacking the authority that Dan is used to from Constance teachers. This woman is uncertain, awkward, out of place. She can't quite walk in heels, her hair quite shabbily cut, and her clothes look inexpensive, perhaps even secondhand. In fact, she appears much younger than Serena and she looks up at Dan with hopeful eyes, as if he is about to save her from the school bully.

Nonsense. Serena is kind and lovely. She isn't the bully. She uses her magnificent – hell, damn near omnipotent – powers for good.

Dan smiles at her and offers up an "of course," a little tongue-tied, finding himself tripping over his own thoughts.

Rachel Carr. The name is cute, plain, non-threatening. He hasn't heard a name like that in a while. Serena van der Woodsen sounds like a castle or a magistrate, and merely the words "Blair Waldorf" inspire great fear in those who cower below her. Nate Archibald. Charles Bass. These names carry weight, hundreds of years of history, blood money, scandal, prestige. But Rachel Carr. Sounds like a girl who would hang out with a Humphrey.

* * *

Little Claire is poised comfortably in the pocket of his school uniform.

"Why are you wearing this hideous outfit," she laughs, pulling idly at his burgundy tie. "It doesn't do good things for you. If you let me dress you, you'd be … " She trails off, a bit of color rising in her cheeks.

_I'd be what, Claire,_ he whispers smugly. _Do you think me handsome, Jane Eyre?_

Little Claire is conflicted: impressed by his adept literary allusion, yet embarrassed and annoyed. "No, _Mr. Rochester_, if I dressed you, I could perhaps – and this is a stretch! – make you look presentable. Not handsome. Please." She huffs a little and then looks at her watch.

"Dan! Dan! It's time to check the Yale decision!" She's squealing and sliding down his arm to reach his phone.

_No, Claire, I'm nervous_, he says pleadingly, but she's already peering at the screen.

He looks away, heart clattering in his ribcage like a wild animal.

"Oh, Dan," says Claire, and he looks down at her cautiously. Her face is absolutely glowing. He thinks, for one crazy second, that he could spend the rest of his life gazing at her, big, sad eyes and shiny brown hair and tiny, full lips. "I think you should look."

In the next second his life changes. His heart looms and his eyes widen and he realizes that for the first time ever, Daniel Humphrey, with no familial pedigree, no pullable strings whatsoever to speak of, is a winner.

* * *

Little Claire is jealous.

"Do I go to Yale in your novel?" She asks him, eyelashes aflutter, legs crossed seductively.

_Maybe if you play your cards right_, he answers mischievously but the answer is: of course, yes, a hundred times yes, Claire and Dylan go to Yale together where they both so clearly belong, and they fall in love in the crispness of New England autumn. He's got it all planned out. It's a happy ending, the exact kind that she'd scoff at.

Claire seems satisfied, and then, with an eyebrow raise, "Are you going to check if Serena got in?"

Dan feels guilt shoot through him like an arrow.

Oh, Jesus. Serena. His high school sweetheart slash stepsister slash love of his life, right? He'd spent half his morning talking to an imaginary character from his book and hadn't even bothered to tell his girlfriend.

He runs up to her, shouting the words out to a hushed courtyard, all awaiting the news – "I got in! I got in!" – and he's engulfed immediately, hair enveloping his face in a curtain of gold, feels her chest pressing against his tightly, and when he pulls back, he is greeted by her million dollar smile like always. "What about you?" He asks, awaiting the obvious – it's Serena fucking van der Wooden, of course she got in, she's the eternal winner – and is blindsided by her nervous, fumbling answer: no.

_No matter_, thinks Dan viciously, _no matter, you can always pay your way in,_ but instead says warmly, "I'm sure you'll get in. In the spring."

"In the spring," Serena says lightly, and they hold hands.

* * *

That night he celebrates with his family. Gourmet pizza, of course, and Rufus opens a bottle of wine, even serving a glass to Jenny. Dan is aflame with happiness; he feels vigor and pure elation zipping through his veins. In a strange, slightly drunken moment, though, he finds himself expressing to his family: "Well, it doesn't really matter where you go to college, in the end. I may have gotten into Yale but that doesn't mean I'm any better than anyone else. It all depends on what you do with yourself. You could go to community college and still be a brilliant person."

Rufus and Jenny nod in perfect agreement, although they seem confused as to why Dan would bring this up on his victorious day.

"Of course, Dan. But you can allow yourself to feel a little proud," says Rufus with a fatherly wink, while Jenny just throws a piece of half-bitten crust at him.

Later on, tipsier than he would admit to himself, Dan wonders where Miss Carr attended college. Two years of Teach for America straight into Constance? Probably somewhere prestigious.

"Who cares about Miss Carr?" Little Claire asks, bemused. "I'm so happy for you, Dan."

She's not sincere very often but in that moment, Claire's smile matches her eyes, fizzing with excitement. Dan feels a pool of heat gathering in his stomach, coiling and furling into something new.

* * *

He doesn't know how it happens exactly, but one moment, he's talking to Miss Carr in the hallway at school, simple, perfunctory greetings, _hello, how are you, yes, everyone here is insufferable and we're the only normal ones, hope you're having a good day_, and the next, they're at a coffee shop, discussing his writing.

He orders them both small mochas and the way she sighs after her first sip is rejuvenating. "Dan," she says with gusto in her voice, "you are so talented."

He doesn't tell anyone about their morning meeting, not even Serena (especially Serena?), lying to his family on his way out, saying he has an a early project.

Rachel loves the story about Serena, the one he always writes, an untouchable Park Avenue Princess and a certain loner with a penchant for writing, says it's refreshing and honest and beautiful.

But oh, the short stories about Claire.

Miss Carr looks at him, eyes shining with barely-there tears, and utters that they are some of the most inspiring things she has ever read.

"And I'm an English teacher, Dan," she breathes out, and he is struck by how big and sad her eyes look, a little bit Audrey Hepburn.

Of course, the rest of her face is wildly different – Rachel looks distinctly youthful with a button nose and thin lips and straight brown hair like a schoolgirl, but those eyes, god, those eyes.

He's in the midst of getting lost in them a bit, looking directly at them so he can see the color in them, so he can describe it later and spin those brown orbs into words, but a familiar voice cuts through his internal monologue.

"Dan…and Miss Carr," Serena is standing in front of them, confusion etched into every line of her face. She's holding a cup of coffee a bit like you'd hold a weapon, so Dan stands up immediately, meeting Serena's height.

He says something awkward and folksy like, "Well, we should be off," and the two of them leave Miss Carr sitting there, Dan's stories in her lap.

* * *

Little Claire is one hell of a sulky mood. "So going to the opera, are you Brooklyn," she says sitting on his shoulder and examining her nails.

"I bet they'll be able to smell the poor on you."

_Claire_, he says, trying to be placating, _I've been to a hundred of these functions. They're used to vermin like me now. _

"That's exactly what you are. Vermin. A pile of worthless shit."

She jumps off his shoulder onto the countertop and walks away from him, sashaying her hips from side to side in a way that she knows Dan will notice.

_Why are you being so awful to me!_ He exclaims. _You're acting like – like –_

The words are on the tip of his tongue but he catches himself right in time. She looks up at him with venom in her eyes, knowing exactly what he was about to say.

"Like who, Brooklyn? Who do I act like? Can you even admit it to yourself? Is it someone that you hate? Is it someone that you _want_ but can't say? Who am I to you, Humphrey," She's snarling now, claws out and teeth bared.

_No one_, yells Dan. _You're based off old Hollywood starlets and Elizabeth Bennett and other strong female characters in literary masterpieces…_

"Keep fooling yourself, asshole," She spits out. "And Rachel Carr? Really? If you think she's going to do the trick, you're delusional. She's like the decaffeinated, two-dimensional version of me with dried-out roots and bad taste. As long as you keep seeing her I'm gone."

_Poof_! And little Claire is gone as fast as she came. The smell of nectarines linger in the air.

* * *

One time in the fifth grade, Daniel Humphrey participated in a school recital. It was his first and only time performing music in front of an audience, and he blamed the oppressive public school system for viciously forcing young children to pick an instrument and join orchestra or band.

He had wanted to play the drums, but his mother had insisted that he choose a string instrument, because she'd played viola and Rufus was obviously a master of the guitar – "it's in your genes, Dan," she'd said.

Dan was not very good. In fact, Dan was the worst in his class. He tried and tried to produce a nice, mellow tone on his violin, but he simply could not play anything better than a screech. Still, his mother took him to lessons and encouraged him to practice at their home, no matter how painful it was for the rest of his family to hear.

The concert was in the spring. Dan was under-practiced and, moreover, not talented. He was one of the most inexperienced in his class, so he was playing his solo near the beginning of the program. He could feel his hands sweating and knees knocking together as he waited his turn. As the little girl behind him played the piano, he looked out into the concert hall nervously, and saw his family. Rufus was waving at him goofily, in a way that convinced him that Dan could do no wrong. Even if he went up there and – man, pooped his pants or something and couldn't hit a single note, Rufus would hug him and say, "Great job, son." Jenny was dressed in a pink puffy dress, light blonde hair in braids, looking bored but smiling at her big brother sweetly. And finally, his mother. Beaming.

In a miraculous feat, Dan managed to perform his Bach minuet flawlessly. The pride that he felt afterwards was almost overwhelming.

For some reason, the entire time Dan was at the opera, his nebulous memory of an elementary school concert was the only thing he could think of. As he looked around at the beautiful, wealthy people dressed in their richest attire, smiling and laughing at each other in a manner that _almost_ seemed genuine, Dan felt unmistakably different from them. And he was glad.

Although his mother may have left, and may even have left their family scarred and tainted by her abrupt disappearance, Dan appreciated the way she had raised him, wholeheartedly, kindly, justly. And even if Lily were to become his stepmother, Dan knew that he'd be okay – wherever he was, in the lonely halls of St. Jude's, at a frivolous UES party, in the hallowed halls of Yale, at a familiar coffee shop in Brooklyn. He felt it as a truth echoing through his body. He wanted desperately to tell Claire – _hey, I'm going to be okay._

He wanted to look into her large eyes filled with the pain of a cold upbringing, broken family, fearsome mother, and say _hey, you're going to be okay too, I'll make sure of it._

But Claire was stubborn – that was how he'd written her character, after all – and didn't turn up.

Instead, Serena came to find him, telling him that she was sorry but she wasn't coming to Yale. The open curriculum at Brown was simply a better fit for her; she'd never actually wanted Yale, and she'd looked up the distance between them and it was only 2 hours, which was absolutely nothing! Dan looked at her and smiled, said, "We're going to be okay, I'll make sure of it."

Later that night, lying in his queen-sized bed, Dan recalled the way Serena had looked as she confessed. Guilty, sad, defeated. Her lips quivered and the crease between her eyebrows deepened, and she was even a little pale. But her eyes looked like they always did. Glittering like diamonds, incandescent and full of hope.

* * *

Little Claire's absence makes Dan go insane. Or, perhaps the fact that he had started talking to an imaginary character was the first sign he had gone mental in the first place. Either way, he aches without her, longs for her in a way he hadn't even thought possible. He spends his days and nights dreaming about her, hoping she would turn up again, sneering at him like she knew something he didn't.

In a cruel twist of fate, he has the worst case of writer's block he has ever encountered combined with the most agonizing blue balls in his life. Little Claire was gone, which meant that he couldn't write any of her dialogue. Before, everything she said was natural and eloquent, but when he tried to write without her presence, his words came out clunky and uneven.

Little Claire was gone, which also meant that he was horny as fuck. He hadn't had sex with Serena in days and well…he didn't really want to. They were in a bizarre sexless purgatory where neither of them were sure if they were going to end up brother and sister, which was decidedly not good for the erotic appetite.

He walked around at school in a daze, paying minimal attention in his classes. However, his sudden loss of interest in his subjects was dismissed by his teachers to be _senioritis_, which they deemed quite forgivable on his part because he was already safely into Yale.

In one of these particularly hazy moments, Dan bumps into Rachel Carr in the hallway. She looks lovely in a light sweater and her hair is styled particularly nicely, and Dan blurts out these sentiments before he can stop himself. The whole encounter is vastly awkward, and the way Rachel is looking at him is so similar to the way little Claire does, smiling up at him through her eyelashes teasingly, and he can't help it, he just kind of wants to touch her, or rather, talk to her and see if any of her dialogue sounds like Claire's, and fuck, he's in too deep and he can't even tell the difference between his professor and his imaginary character and Blair Waldorf –

Right. Yes. Blair. Blair Waldorf is a giant bitch. Horrible. Evil. Bitch.

Blair spreads a salacious rumor about him and Miss Carr having some sort of lurid affair, all because of some immature vendetta she has against the teacher for giving her a B. And god, how stupid, why can't she just solve her problems on her own without creating huge, messy complications for his relationships? He has to explain it to Serena in the courtyard, and he's sweating and tired and he keeps seeing Serena's face in front of him but her eyes are brown, they're Claire's, they're sad. He digs a nail into his skin, says, _wake the fuck up, Dan_, and she's back, eyes baby blue as ever and accusatory. He swears over and over again that he didn't do it, he didn't cheat on her, he's Dan Humphrey, he's a good guy, he's not spending his nights masturbating to an image of a gorgeous brunette that he's created for his novel, hey, that's not technically cheating okay, fuck you, Blair.

He determines that barging into the women's restroom and confronting Blair is the best course of action. She's looking at her reflection and fixing her lip gloss, and when he comes in, rather violently, she doesn't even bother to look surprised. It's like she'd been expecting him. Her eyes are murderous and flashing in the mirror but her tone is sickly sweet – a rehearsed routine. He wants to call her on it, to grab her by her shoulders and press her up against the cold bathroom wall, and say, _I see right through you, Waldorf._

"I don't know what you mean, Humphrey," she says innocently, and Dan's brain is going on overdrive, because Blair … wow, she looks quite a lot like Claire and he'd always kind of known it subconsciously but it's starting to well up as an unrecognizable truth in his head, and he's wrestling it away, trying to keep it suppressed.

She turns to look at him, hair curled expertly and lips taunting him with a ridiculously perfect pout.

"Maybe she can give you notes on your story. Naked." She quirks her eyebrows up at him, a distinct challenge, and Dan cuts in front of her, obstructing her way out of the ladies' room.

"Look, I know you did it, Blair. Just fix it. Miss Carr is a good person, and she doesn't deserve any of this."

He puts a hand on her shoulder, meaning to be aggressive and domineering, to show her who's boss, but halfway down he realizes that he's never really touched Blair Waldorf before, and his hand starts to shake a bit. He knows he should backtrack, somehow get out of this situation, but he can't – and there it is, his hand, landing on her shoulder tentatively, almost tenderly. He looks down at her and Blair's face is a mirror of his own: nonplussed and yet…strangely content? She snaps out of it quicker than he does, of course, and shakes his arm off of her.

"Get your contaminated hands off me, Humphrey. For the last time, I don't know what you're talking about." She says sharply, but her breath is shallow, and she looks flustered. There is a strange sensation in Dan's legs a bit like he's melting; the hubbub of school and class all careen away and the only sounds he can register are his heartbeat and Blair's rapid breathing.

He should have let her go at that instant, his brain knew it, every bone in his body knew it, but his hand – fuck, his hand is on some sort of suicide mission – and it reaches out and tucks a wayward curl out of Blair's face on to her delicate shell of an ear. And then, as his brain commences screaming – WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, HUMPHREY – his feet start to walk towards Blair, cornering her near the sink so that they are face to face, Blair's hand clutching the counter.

"What do you think you're doing," She hisses at him, cheeks flushed and eyes looming forward at him, larger than life, like a Dali painting threatening to swallow him whole.

At this point, Dan loses control of every limb and every single ounce of sense he has left in his body, so naturally, he grabs Blair by the waist forcefully and lifts her up onto the clean granite countertop that Constance has so graciously provided them. She lets out a shocked gasp, a loud, unfettered noise, but does not say a thing, letting his hands stay at her hips, holding her in place.

She is light as a feather; Serena must have at least 20 pounds on her and the van der Woodsens are known for being skinny. It inspires a strange feeling in him – something he's never encountered with Serena, this weird masculinity and machismo, like he knows he can lift Blair up with one hand and carry her over her shoulder. It disturbs him, makes him feel like an asshole and a creep, and also gives him the goosebumps. At the same time, he registers a sort of discomfort, a worrisome itch at the back of his brain saying, _does Blair eat anything? Is she okay?_

Her skirt is soft and short and although he has apparently lost his mind he at least steels his eyes so they do not stray downwards and see what he knows is in sight – a flash of Blair Waldorf's garter, black and lacy and dangerous as hell.

He looks into her eyes and they are glaring topaz daggers at him, poisoning him with their encompassing beauty.

"I know what you did," he says, mostly for the sake of something to say, and it comes out shaky and haggard and rough.

Blair smiles then, hearing the sound of his uncertain voice and knowing she has the upper hand. She shimmies a little bit down the counter so that his hands are now not touching skirt but bare leg. His hands twitch a little bit at first but then stay frozen in place, memorizing the way her smooth, warm skin feels.

"Do you, Humphrey? I wasn't aware that you knew me so well."

Her voice is a low pianissimo, whispering a sultry secret in his ear.

She is about to move off the counter – he can feel it in the tensing of her thigh muscles, and he knows he is about to lose her. He knows she has won. He knows she will continue to win. But he has one move left in his arsenal so he uses it, a desperate last measure. He reaches out with just one finger and ghosts it along her knee up to her inner thigh where skin meets skirt and stops there, feeling her shudder underneath him.

"Me neither." He says, and he knows the words are lame and defeated but they are the best he can do.

Blair Waldorf jumps off the counter, slamming his hands away from her, the surreptitious, slow air broken with her sudden movements.

"Stay away from me, Humphrey," she spits out and is gone in a graceful flash, leaving Dan fantastically confused, guilty, and agitated.

He spends the rest of the day with half a boner, feeling like a shitty person and even shittier boyfriend. He doesn't know what compelled him to such inappropriate antics – he'd touched Blair's thigh! – and even Dan, master of denial that he was, could not forget the way those moments in the bathroom felt, stolen and secret and definitely sexual. He convinced himself that they were both just using every juvenile trick in the book, trying to use sexual desire to their advantage to manipulate one other. But since when did Dan Humphrey lust over Blair Waldorf, or, even crazier still, the other way around?

When he gets a call from Miss Carr asking him to meet her outside of school so they can talk about the scandal, Dan answers yes immediately. Finally. Something that will make sense again. Seeing Miss Carr in a melancholy stupor will dissolve any positive feelings towards Blair he has in an instant, because Blair is girly evil personified, and this he has known from the very beginning.


	4. Rachel, Part Three

Thanks so much for all your reviews! I really appreciate the feedback. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

* * *

The cafe is small and understated, with bluish-gold lighting and particularly trendy china. He's never been there before, which, for some reason, excites Dan. It's Rachel's place. She found it, she picked it, she frequents it and drinks chai tea there after work and grades papers while listening to the likes of Oscar Peterson and Norah Jones.

It's like they're sharing a small secret, even if that information is just about the best hot beverage that Rachel's found in the city so far.

He wonders when he stopped calling her Miss Carr and settled exclusively on Rachel.

At first, she's all business. Legs crossed primly and lips pursed in concentration. She calls him "Daniel" and states the facts of their case as if he doesn't know them. As if they aren't plastered all over Gossip Girl for the world to see, the way his entire life has been for the last two years.

Then, her voice starts to shake, the incredulity of the situation growing on her, her eyes widening in barely suppressed horror, and she exclaims, "I would never _do_ that!"

And there's this feeling in his stomach, this strange snap like a twig breaking inside him, and he can hear himself mumbling out some awkward words, and he wants to leave, to never look at Rachel's face again, but oh fuck, he's always been bad at this, she's about to cry – Dan will never understand where he got his damsel complex from – so he reaches out and wipes her tears away, and envelopes her into a hug.

No one deserves this.

No one deserves the wrath of Waldorf.

Especially not someone so pleasant, who loves Shakespeare almost as much as Dan does.

She's shaking but relaxes into his body for a dizzying couple seconds. He hasn't hugged anyone besides Serena and Jenny in months and this new human contact, this fragile female body in his arms feels wonderful. (He wonders briefly what it would feel like to wrap his arms around Claire, and violently pushes the thought out of his mind. It is impossible to hug Claire. She is not real, Humphrey, he scolds himself.) Clutching Serena to his chest always made him feel a bit anxious, like he was impotent, like there was no way in the world he actually deserved her, or could make her happy. But this tiny woman in his arms – oh, he could protect her. He could comfort her. He could…

His brain halts as Rachel pulls back jerkily, shock reflecting in the pools of her chocolate eyes.

"What are you doing," she chokes out, and everything feels so inappropriate and surreal, like he's in a dream watching himself fuck up, over and over. First Blair Waldorf's thigh, now Rachel Carr's back. Today Dan keeps touching women that are not his girlfriend.

Jaw tense, he tries to apologize or explain or kiss her (what?!) but she's running out of the café before he can stop her.

* * *

Before the end of the hour, everything is in utter shambles.

Dan is used to it by now. He used to marvel at how much faster time seemed to elapse on the Upper East Side – tick, another scandal, tock, another life ruined – but now he understands it, rides the rhythm of it all the way to school and faces them all without flinching: Rufus, Blair, Serena, Rachel, even the headmaster.

Sometimes he wishes he'd stayed anonymous. Life would have been less exciting, sure, and time would go by leisurely, just another boring day on the clock, but perhaps he would have been better off. He would have been another normal teenager, a lonely boy, sure, but not _the_ eponymous Lonely Boy.

The headmaster seems tired, wizened beyond her years in a way that can only be explained by the constant tirade of vicious teenagers. His father looks beyond disappointed, lips curled and eyes darkened the way he always gets when he's angry, deeply angry; it's hard to stomach but at least he's easy to read.

Serena looks down on him, as if she stands on Mt. Olympus and he is but a peasant who has offended the highest deity. And as Dan feels her steely gaze, he has to admit, she has a right to be looking at him this way. He's been nothing but disinterested in her for weeks. Everything is going south for them – for god's sake, their parents are probably going to get married in the not-so-distant future. They haven't fucked in weeks and, I mean, he would if someone put a gun to his head or whatever, Serena's kind of inhumanly gorgeous, but he doesn't particularly feel the urge to. At night when sexual thoughts overwhelm him, when lust seeps into his adolescent brain and just sits there, makes a lurid home in his brain, he thinks of little Claire mostly. Sometimes other brunettes from school comes up briefly and on his more whimsical nights, Holly Golightly dances through his mind, naked and singing sadly. Serena simply doesn't have the hair for it.

The woman of the hour comes out of the meeting in quiet desperation and Dan's heart jumps a little. Rachel Carr is a gift to Constance. She is everything a person should be, sweet and good and the perfect epitome of subtlety. A lone tear, a light giggle, a crook of the neck. She stands out in Manhattan _because_ she isn't gaudy or loud or glittering. Like seeing something in black and white at a Gatsby party.

"I lost my job," She says. There is no malice or incredulity in her voice. Mere exhaustion and accepted defeat. She looks about four years old. He has a sudden vision of her in a pastel dress, long cotton socks, and patent black shoes, and she looks half-Lolita, half-the horrifying girls from the Shining. It makes him shiver.

Well, to hell with them all. If they have the nerve to destroy someone as pure as Rachel and not even feel a smidge of guilt, fuck them. And if Rachel doesn't want to fight, he will. He knows how they work now, and he can take them down.

Anger bubbles through his upper body, robust and churning. He spots Blair Waldorf; she looks smug and arrogant, buzzing with excitement over her pending admission into Yale. The very thought of attending college with someone as heartless and vindictive as Blair makes his blood boil – his vision goes cloudy as he stares at her from across the room. He zeroes in on her lips, stained a sort of raspberry tart, lower lip invariably pouting, glistening and taunting him. She's wearing a skirt as always and he sees creamy, shapely legs (does she work out? she must have a personal trainer, she does own half of New York) and he wants to just … do something … bad to them. You know, like, he should stab them, because she's such a bad person, and someone should incapacitate her before she harms any more people. He definitely should not kiss his way up from her slender ankles all the way up to her inner thighs until she's panting and begging for him to spread her open and touch her center. Fuck. He feels vaguely like he is about to throw up. His heart pounds loudly in his ears and – well, this is vulgar, but he can feel his pulse in his dick. It is entirely _not_ sexual. This is _obviously_ just the anger talking, making his blood flow in strange places. Dan knows that this is a mistake, that she'll shut him down without batting an eyelash, but he walks over to her anyway, squaring his shoulders.

He gets close to her and says something accusatory and soap-operatic without even thinking about it, a UES trait he's picked up for his arsenal. She smells the same as she did this afternoon when he confronted her in the girl's bathroom – cold tile, blue skirt, parted lips – and he can't quite extricate her natural scent from the overpowering Chanel No. 5.

But it's a little something like peaches. Or nectarines, maybe apricots. Some fleshy, soft spring fruit embossed in pink and orange. How the air smells when the day seems precious, when it's sunny and heavy and there's something you're looking forward to, a tug in your chest that says _yes please_.

Blair is talking, which Dan hadn't really registered while he was drinking her in, stilettos and all. The facts have become unmistakable and although Dan himself is _definitely not attracted to her_, Blair Waldorf is, undeniably, one hell of a looker. The kind of girl that brings men to their knees. The face of a princess with a tantalizing attitude, like a forbidden siren. And then Dan admits it to himself, because he can't keep this charade up anymore – she is absolutely identical in likeness to Claire Carlilse. Was his character Claire just a version of Blair that he'd created in his head, so that he could talk to her and be with her all the time, the way he couldn't with Blair in real life?

Nothing makes sense. But she's saying something, _I'm weirdly prophetic aren't I, no matter, I'm always right, you should really get used to it, Humphrey_, the same kind of useless, dramatic dialogue she always spouts, but when he looks her hard in the eyes, he swears there's a smirk in there, an esoteric code that Dan can't quite understand. He thinks she's telling him to read between the lines.

Oh, but he's so mad at her he can't stand it. He wants to pull her inside the headmaster's office and give her a talking to. Teach her a lesson and show her that she can't shove him around like this. Unless he consents to it, of course, in which case …

And when Serena comes in to break up their argument and to steal him away so that they can talk, as they inevitably need to, Blair scoffs and rolls her eyes at the couple but does this weird little thing where she bends down to grab her purse so that just he can see up her skirt for a few short but mind-blowing milliseconds. Her underwear is made of a diaphanous lavender material; he'd guess chenille or lace from all the lessons he'd gotten in textiles from Jenny. It's gorgeous and tiny and spiders down from her hips to her luscious ass, and Dan is momentarily frozen in time and space as he imagines what it would be like to hook his thumbs into the gauzy lingerie and slowly, torturously, guide Blair Waldorf's panties down her incredible legs.

Before he knows it, Dan is in the courtyard with his girlfriend. The icy wind blows all thoughts of Blair/Claire/Rachel/sex out of his mind, and for the first time in weeks, he focuses on Serena. He holds her trembling hands and sees the strained apology on her face. They are in the same place. That place is not together.

The truth is fumbling and slow but they both know it. They are over for good.

It's bitingly cold, so Dan and Serena gather in a last huddle, more familial than sensual. He feels a hushed peace simmer between them, thanks and forgiveness floating in the air, attainable at last.

_Hey, we're going to be okay._

_I know._

That night in bed, as Dan reads The Sun Also Rises, little Claire shows up on top of the book. She looks cozy in an autumn sweater, her expression impassive.

_You're back!_ Dan is ecstatic. _I'm sorry. Stay. Please stay._

Little Claire stares at him for about three seconds, and then, "I'm glad you broke up with Serena. You're still not forgiven. But I just wanted to express my support."

Dan nods vigorously.

"I'm not going to stay, Dan," she says, a trace of sadness in her voice. "You still have a whole lot to take care of."

He gives her a long, depressed look and she returns one of her own injected with a bit more sass.

"You should take a few pointers from Hemingway. He was so blunt and to-the-point. You're like the worst rambler in the world."

_I know, Claire, but who am I going to ramble to when you're gone? I miss you. _He's pleading now. Whatever, who has dignity when talking to an imaginary person anyway.

"I miss you, too, Humphrey." She fades away slowly, reminding Dan of the Cheshire Cat, her smile stationary and floating in thin air for one moment longer than the rest of her, then, gone.

* * *

Nelly Yuki cracks like an egg. Especially for Dan. He texts her, asking her to meet him outside before school, and she shows up eagerly. Dressed in soft pink, hopeful and breathless, Nelly is no doubt expecting a romantic encounter between the two of them after reading the news of the vanderHumphrey break up that has been dominating Gossip Girl lately. Dan knows this and he can sense it – he's perceptive, he's a writer, remember? He takes advantage of her pliable, obedient nature and bends her to his will, blackmailing her into betraying her queen. He says she looks nice today to which Nelly responds by blushing the color of her skirt. She's a bundle of nerves, spitting out "Dan, I've always wanted to tell you this –" but he interrupts her quickly. "I know what Blair did to Miss Carr," he breathes out, the words leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth as he watches her face crumple.

During math that day, he gets up to go to the bathroom, and is walking innocently down the corridor when he is slammed violently up against his locker. Blair Waldorf stands in front of him, glaring treacherously, holding a fistful of his tie and pinning his hands up with her own surprisingly forceful arms.

"Why are you _screwing_ with me," she says smoothly, lips inches from his own. They are glossy and full as usual. Her hair is done up in elegant ringlets. Her eyelashes look about a mile long, and as he looks steadily but anxiously into her eyes, he swears he can see a tear growing in one of them. He pushes down the strange urge to cup her face and hug her tightly, to kiss her feet and beg forgiveness.

"Because you screwed with Miss Carr, and it's not right," he says, sounding distinctly more confident than he feels.

"So what, now you're a vigilante fighting for justice? Is this some sort of bullshit noble cause for you?"

Dan gulps, feeling Blair's hot breath on him. He fidgets, widening his stance. Blair smirks, stepping easily into the space between his legs. He feels her legs press into his, although he can't tell if it's for seduction or harassment or persuasion, or a weird, dangerous mixture of all three.

"I'm just standing up for someone who doesn't know how to – I mean …"

He is tongue-tied and paralyzed. Blair has him trapped and her gaze feels like one of a microscope, pinning him, a small, lowly specimen to a glass slide.

"Cat got your tongue, Bruce Wayne? Do me a favor and stop being so philanthropic. Keep your nose out of my business or so help me God – I will ruin you."

She raises one leg and wraps it around his own tightly as she speaks, ending her threat with her lips literally on his ear. Dan's nerves jitter with activity and he feels his brain slowing to a halt. He officially cannot produce a single word in response.

Blair looks at him levelly, then gives him one last shove against the locker before walking away from him, heels clicking on the tile floor and giggling softly.

Defeated and turned on, Dan trudges to the library. His feet feel heavy and his brain swims with images of Blair/Claire and her sad-eyed vixen smile. He tries to find comfort amongst the dusty tomes lining the shelves of his school's very expensive library, running his tired fingers over the bindings and appreciating the old book smell he's so used to, the one he's savored since he was a child.

* * *

By 9 o'clock every nerve ending in Dan's body feels fried. He cannot concentrate on anything. The Thai food he ate for dinner tasted like ash, although he purposely ordered spicy tom yum to shock his taste buds into feeling something. He has heard the news via Gossip Girl that Blair has been punished by the headmaster, that she is scheduled to do community service to make up for her bad behavior, and that her Yale acceptance sits in purgatory. The last blast of news made something loosen in Dan's heart, something that had lodged itself in his chest since his betrayal of Nelly Yuki. Something akin to guilt and also a fervent desire to be right. He was correct in telling the headmaster what happened to Blair. Perhaps Rachel would get a second chance. Blair would learn that what she did was wrong, without suffering any horrific consequence. It was all for the best. Dan had made the right decision.

Still, he couldn't shake this oppressive feeling that he'd wronged Blair. _Who_ _cares_! He thinks. She's a bitch. A nasty, bon-mot tossing, hazing Upper East Sider with beautiful milky legs and the best ass in the world and the most gorgeous eyes he's ever seen and she had been kind of crying when she pressed him up against the wall and that made him feel so bad…_fuck_.

Gathering up the last of his resolve, Dan makes one last pilgrimage to see Rachel Carr. Seeing her will certainly make everything better. She will thank him and assure him that he did the right thing. Perhaps she'll make him tea and they'll talk for hours and Dan will finally be able to calm down.

Dan knocks solidly on her door and sheepishly grins down at Rachel who looks surprised to see him at her home. He starts to say something, to explain why he is there, but he is cut off when Rachel suddenly pulls him down to her and kisses him with fiery vigor.

She tastes like cinnamon.

"Whoa – Rachel, what are you doing?" He exclaims, breaking away from her mouth, unsure how to respond to her zeal.

Rachel looks up at him with wide eyes smoldering with lust. There is no regret there, no second-guessing.

"I don't work at your school anymore, Dan," She says slowly, as if willing him to understand. There is a split second where she looks afraid that he will reject her, and Dan thinks about it too. He could just walk away from this mess and he would never have to see Rachel again, nor think about this awful rumor. He could just masturbate at home like usual, and nothing would change. But then he feels a tingle in his dick, a rush of lust, and the slight, tinkling fear that if he leaves, Rachel will cry in shame. He cannot make any more women cry today, or he will die of guilt.

And so he swoops down, capturing her lips in his own. Kissing someone shorter than him is new to Dan, and he finds he likes it, likes bending down to someone smaller and enveloping her in his body. Rachel moans appreciatively, wrapping her tiny arms around his shoulders, saying softly, "You're so muscular, Dan," and he feels a twinge of pride in his masculinity. Her lips are thin but nice and soft, surprisingly fuller than he'd thought, like a small chocolate that melts in your mouth, coating the tongue. He growls a bit when she tugs his shirt off and runs her fingernails down his back. Rachel smiles wickedly and pushes him onto the bed, standing at the foot of it and pulling her shirt off. She is wearing a lacy push-up bra as if she had been expecting sex, unhooks it with finesse and throws it at him. Dan is kind of appalled at her intensity and forwardness, thinking, _wow, you were my teacher like two days ago_, but stops thinking mostly when she straddles him in her skirt, arching her chest into his face.

Taking her cue, Dan nibbles at her breasts, reveling in the sharp cries she emits as he teases them. Her nipples are small and brownish and pebble up at his touch. "Oh, Dan," she says loudly when he reaches down under her skirt to her panties. The cotton is soaked through, and she squirms as he slips his fingers underneath the fabric to touch her vagina.

"Oh, Dan, I've wanted this," she lets out with a heavy sigh. He is bewildered by this admission, realizing that he hadn't really felt the same, had thought she bore some resemblance to the brown-eyed brunette trend he'd been lusting after, but he had mostly only had eyes for Blaire/Clair. Rachel's crying and her appraisal of his writing had given him some quiver of want for her, but that had been the brunt of it…

Shaking these thoughts away, Dan says, "Me too," and lies down on the bed, taking her with him. She wriggles on top of him and Dan puts his hands on her ass, feeling her tender skin. Experimenting, Dan spanks her ass lightly – to which Rachel sits upright in bed, staring down at him with hungry eyes.

"Ohmygod," tumbles out of her mouth, and she takes off her skirt and motions for Dan to do the same with his bottoms. He feels slightly embarrassed, not sure if he wants to show Rachel Carr his dick, because if he does that, wow, there will be no coming back, but Rachel blows past him at an allegro and takes his member in her mouth.

"Whoa!" He yells, but Rachel peers up at him with mischievous eyes and swirls her tongue on the head of his penis, the most sensitive part. "I want you inside me," she says seductively, and Dan is a little freaked out but definitely erect and horny and past the point of no return.

Quickly and expertly, Rachel rolls a condom on Dan and guides him inside of her, rocking her hips methodically. She's a bit tighter than Serena but mostly feels the same as she moves, setting a steady rhythm. She lets him fuck her for a bit, slow and sensitive, just like a Humphrey, but then says, "let's change positions," and gets on top of him, bouncing up and down like she's on a rodeo horse. Her small boobs flop around and she tilts her head back, mouth open and panting. She cums quickly, yelling his name in between expletives, and Dan takes in the sight of her. Brown hair plastered to her chest in tendrils, sweating and spasming excessively, grinding her pelvis down onto him, she looks like any college girl. "Mm, Rachel," he says, and focuses on the image of his dick buried deep inside her to come to his own orgasm, which shudders through his legs incredibly but doesn't quite reach his torso. She flops off of him, breathing shallowly and murmuring softly, "That was amazing, oh Dan, you're so good…"

His toes tingle in genial agreement with her sentiment. It was good sex. Not great sex, but how much more could a high school boy ask for. He reaches out to cuddle and Rachel responds happily, burrowing into his neck. She dozes off almost instantly, probably worn out from the ordeal of getting falsely accused of having sex with a student, getting fired accordingly, and then making good on said allegation.

There's something warm and musky in the air, the smell of sex mixed in with scented candles, the tartness of cinnamon, and maybe a tiny bit of fresh regret. Dan waves away the last feeling along with every thought of disapproving Claire that invades his brain – _no, go away, tonight I'm just going to enjoy this. _He falls asleep to the lackluster flicker of the candle, burning fitfully through the night.


End file.

Gossip Girl